


Hidden Ace

by Beastrage



Category: Persona 5, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Blood, Gen, Internship Arc Spoilers (My Hero Academia), Torture, post Persona 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 06:24:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15430956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beastrage/pseuds/Beastrage
Summary: Overhaul runs an attempted recruitment drive. Surely the leader of the vigilante group the Phantom Thieves would be more than happy to return to his old work of 'stealing' peoples' hearts.Joker would rather not, thank you very much.





	Hidden Ace

There’s dried blood on the ropes tight around his wrists. Stuck there, hands tied behind his back, tied to the chair he’s been occupying the last two days, he can only think of how familiar the entire situation is. He’s even wearing his high school uniform, like the last time.  
_At least it’s not the police this time,_ he thinks, a wry smile on his bloody lips. The teen knows better than to hope for any heroes to come swooping in to save the day. No, the only people he has faith in is his friends. His friends will let nothing stop them in finding him.

He’s sure of it.

The door to the room slams against the wall. In comes a broad-shouldered masked man. Holding a pipe.  
“Ready to talk yet, kid? Overhaul’s not gonna wait forever.”  
He says nothing, even as the thug walks closer and closer to him. Thick boots go clunk, clunk, clunk on the ice-cold concrete. Cold eyes stare at him through the eye-holes of a red bird mask, cheaply made. Crow, the name comes briefly before he squashes it out of his thoughts. This is no Crow, no traitor Detective Prince. Only a yazuka thug working under the villain Overhaul.  
A chuckle. “Think you’re tough stuff, huh?” There’s a smack of a small pipe hitting a open palm. Another beating? More bruises to add to his collection over them, a collection that’s been growing over several days. It would be easy, just to open his mouth and tell Overhaul the truth. Like he did with Sae.  
“Speak up and the pain will end,” his tormenter promises. “The boss’ll listen to you and the pain will stop.”  
He can’t. Unlike Sae, Overhaul seeks only to use, to harm. To rule the criminal underworld. Had the app to the Metaverse still existed, he had no doubt that Overhaul would have been a target on the top of the list. To tell Overhaul was to betray his friends.  
So he keeps silent, even as the blows rain down on him. He cries out and grunts under each blow, but not a word escapes his lips.

 _I am thou..._  
He shivers, a sudden chill going down his spine. The whispered words are familiar and the voice who whispers them ever more so. It’s been months, since he last heard them.  
The first time since the Phantom Thieves’ final theft.  
Arsene?  
Nothing.  
“-better to just give up. Hey, are you listening?”  
He keeps silent, head hanging low.  
The rustling of a jacket as the thug shrugs. “Oh well. Guess I need to hit harder.” He raises the pipe to start again, only to pause mid-hit. The bird mask turns to look at the doorway.  
There are sounds coming through the open door. The stamp of rushing feet, of people pushing and shoving at each other. There is shouting, though the words are too indistinct for his understanding.  
Something has changed. Prickles run up and down his skin, his back. He flexes his fingers, feeling the ropes shift on his burning wrists. Just a little further...  
“Stay here.” He bites his tongue, to resist the urge to point that he can’t really go anywhere, now can he. Better to stay silent, as the thug heads for the suddenly busy hallway.

He works harder at the ropes, biting back any whimpers of pain as they cut deeper into his flesh. Blood flows free, red dripping down all over his hands. Heh. Like my gloves, as a Phantom Thief, he can’t help but think, even hurting like this. Just a little further...  
One final pull and his hands pop free, wrists torn by the rough ropes. He slowly rises to his feet, rubbing at the cuts. He hisses, bruises stinging, as he forces himself to take a step forward.  
Blood trickles off his hands, leaving a trail of red drops in his wake.

 _Thou art I..._  
He traces right underneath his eyes, with one bloody finger. Leaving curving tracks of blood on his cheeks, forming the red outline of a mask. There’s nothing there to pull and tear off, not like in the Metaverse.  
Still, there’s something stirring, a familiar burning under his skin. He closes his eyes. When he opens them once more, they’re glowing red in low light of his prison.  
He’s not sure if Third Eye is an ability independent of his Quirk or it is his Quirk, powered up to the next level. He’s never been sure about that. What he is sure about is how useful it is. People become glowing outlines through the walls, all of them a burning red. Enemies. Ones that are too strong to confront in his current state.  
He slips through the door, sneaking carefully through the underground halls. Checking every so often with Third Eye prevents him from running into anyone.  
He’s still bleeding. Leaving a trail. Not much he can do about that.  
He keeps going. Keeps stumbling onward.  
Red enemies everywhere. Red, red, red everywhere...and yellow.

He pauses, frowning to himself. Yellow? He checks that direction again with Third Eye. Yes, a yellow glow, right off to the left. A lesser enemy? Or something to steal...  
He heads towards that single golden light. It glows dimly, but steadily. Calling out for anyone that can see to find it, take it.  
He comes across a closed door. His hand closes around the handle and turns it. Or tries to at least. It jiggles, but doesn’t turn. Locked.  
At least being a Phantom Thief had taught him a few tricks he could use outside the Metaverse. He rummages around in his pockets, finding a single bobby pin tucked away in the seams. Lucky his kidnappers hadn’t searched him very thoroughly. Carefully, his clever fingers insert the pin into the lock. It only takes two tries before the door pops open.  
Inside is...well, he’s not sure what he expected, but it wasn’t this.

 

There’s a bed. A lonely bed surrounded by piles of toys both old and new. On that bed, lies a small girl. Tiny against the mattress.  
She gleams gold in his otherworldly sight.  
At the creaking of door, she curls up tighter in her covers but does nothing more. He takes a step forward, closer to the bed and the girl. With keen eyes, he spies bandages all over her arms. Bandages on her arms and bruises on her face. Bruises that are shaped like hand-prints.  
His blood burns at the sight. His fingernails cut in the flesh of his palms, adding fresh blood to the already gory mess on his hands.  
This is wrong. He knows that truth down to his bones. No little girl should be hurt like this, afraid of whoever opens the door to her room. A locked room, at that. No one, least of a little girl, should be trapped like this.  
At that moment, there is nothing more he wants to do than kick down the gate to Overhaul’s Palace and brutally force the villain’s Shadow to confess every single sin he has ever committed, with a gun held to his head.

 _What injustice! Will you stand by and let this happen?_ Arsene hisses in his ears. He glances around, nearly expecting the Persona to be standing right behind him. He is alone, yet he still hears the words so much like those spoken right before his awakening, a near shout in his ear.  
_No...I know your resolve, I know your answer. Call upon my name and release thy rage! Show the strength of thine will, though you be chained to Hell itself!_  
**_Arsene!_**  
He raises a hand, feeling the power build in him once more. The Persona rages and burns with the rest of him, calling out to him to put a stop to the outrage before him.  
The transformation is not nearly so dramatic as in the Metaverse. His clothes remain the same, for example, torn and covered in his own blood. But his wrists are now raw with red flesh, not bleeding veins. Reaching up, he feels the edges of a familiar mask around his eyes.

The little girl whimpers. “I’m sorry-!” She cries, shoving her head into her pillow.  
He holds out a hand. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he says softly. “I want to help.”  
The little girl sniffles, rubbing at her eyes. She doesn’t take his hand.  
“What’s your name?” he tries, hand still waiting.  
Her eyes are bright, even in the darkness of her room. The silence drags on, until he believes he’ll get no answer from her, until she at last speaks.  
“...Eri,” she says in a small voice.  
“Eri. That’s a good name.” He smiles. “You can call me...Joker.”


End file.
